


Blizzards and Concussions

by thelilging



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Car Accidents, Doctor Clarke, F/M, bellamy likes to swear
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-29
Updated: 2015-03-29
Packaged: 2018-03-20 03:53:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3635634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelilging/pseuds/thelilging
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clarke is exhausted. Work was stressful. Her feet ache from walking all day, and she can feel a migraine coming on. All she wants is to get home, snuggle up with a cup of hot chocolate, and sleep the day away. </p>
<p>A car accident is the last thing she needs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blizzards and Concussions

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not a doctor, so everything that's even remotely medical is from webmd. Oops. This is my first Bellarke! Please be gentle hehehe

The roads are bad. Painfully so. Visibility is down to nothing, despite the frantic scraping of her windshield wipers, and traffic has been reduced to a crawl.

  
Fresh off of a ridiculously long shift at the hospital filled with the usual bad weather car accidents and shoveling mishaps, Clarke blinks rapidly, trying to restore the spotty vision in her left eye. The tell-tale pins and needles sensation creeps into her left leg.

  
Clarke swears softly. The last thing she needs right now is a migraine. “As if driving isn't dangerous enough tonight...” she mutters to herself darkly. Her breath crystallizes in the car in front of her.

  
She pauses briefly at a stop sign and barely looks before accelerating again, lost in her internal grumblings. All she wants is to get home and curl up with a cup of hot chocolate before going to bed and sleeping the day away.

  
A horn blares from her right. Clarke snaps her head to the right just in time to see a car barreling towards her at a speed that's much too fast, its headlights illuminating the inside of her car, before the cars collide with an earth-shattering crunch.

  
Everything happens in slow motion. Clarke's head slams against the window, shattering the glass. The airbags deploy on impact. Her seat belt tightens and yanks painfully at the skin of her exposed neck. The cars slide across the ice-covered streets until they hit the curb, rocking precariously, and finally stop.

***

“Fuck! God fucking dammit!”

  
Bellamy is up and out of his seat in a fraction of a second, slipping and sliding wildly on the ice until he stands next to the blonde girl's shattered window. Blood drips down her cheek from a cut on her forehead, and she looks dangerously confused.

Fuck.

  
“I-I... Oh my God... Fuck!” he stammers. “Miss, can you... can you, uh, hear me? What can I do?”

  
She lets out a low groan and stirs slightly. “Call 911, you moron,” she croaks.

  
If they were in any other situation, Bellamy would have been a bit more affronted by her tone, but then she looks up at him, eyes unfocused, and Bellamy wonders for a second if she can even see him. He fumbles in his pockets, searching for his cell phone. His fingers are shaky when he dials the number. Help is on the way, the operator promises him. The lady tries to keep him talking, but then the girl in front of him starts groaning and probing the cut on her forehead, and Bellamy is immediately distracted.

  
It's only when the girl starts shivering, her skin deathly pale against the blood on her temple, that Bellamy realizes that she isn't wearing a coat. How cold she obviously is. And injured.

  
Fuck.

  
“Come to my car,” Bellamy blurts out.

  
The girl looks at him like he's crazy.

  
“It's freezing,” he says quickly. “I'll help you with your cut.”

  
She starts to shake her head before sucking in a sharp breath and closing her eyes again. “I'm too dizzy,” she manages.

  
Fuck. Does that mean she has a concussion? Why didn't he pay more attention during that CPR class he had to take last month?!

  
Bellamy opens her door, trying not to move the car too much, and crouches beside her. “Are you hurt anywhere else?”

  
“I think my wrist is broken,” she says through gritted teeth.

  
“I'm going to carry you,” he says calmly, his crisis instincts finally kicking in. “Tell me if anything hurts.”

  
Bellamy unbuckles her, wincing when he sees the red marks the seat belt left across her neck, and then lifts her slowly, careful not to jostle her too much. She still hisses in pain. Her uninjured hand white-knuckles his winter coat as he shuffles across the ice carefully. After gently setting her in the passenger seat of his own car and covering her with a rather ratty blanket from the backseat, Bellamy hurries around to sit next to her.

  
“Find a cloth,” she murmurs.

  
“Sorry?”

  
“Apply pressure to my head,” she says. “Unless you want me to bleed out so you don't have to buy me a new car.”

  
Bellamy stares at her in shock.

  
She lets out a soft huff. “It's a joke. Jesus.”

  
Bellamy unwinds his scarf, which already has some of her blood on it, and gingerly holds it to her head. Her eyes flutter closed.

  
“Hey, um, you shouldn't fall asleep,” Bellamy says.

  
“Clarke,” she says.

  
“Sorry?”

  
She opens her eyes, and looks over at him. “I'm Clarke.”

  
Bellamy frowns at her, trying to remember where he's heard that name before. “Clarke Griffin?”

  
It has to be her. After all, how many cute blondes are there in the world named Clarke? Not many people hate their kids enough to give them a name like that.

  
Clarke narrows her eyes. “If you're a serial killer I swear to God...”

  
“I'm Bellamy Blake,” Bellamy interrupts, “Octavia's brother.”

***

Well, damn. Clarke's college roommate's brother sure has aged well. His shoulders are broader for one thing, and he has let his dark hair grow out enough that it flops into his forehead in messy spirals. That buzz cut was never flattering anyways.

  
Clarke closes her eyes, trying not to puke up her dinner, when Bellamy splits into two in front of her as her vision swims. Her hand is starting to throb as her adrenaline level decreases. The skin of her forehead, where the glass sliced her open, burns red hot. So much for going home and relaxing...

  
“Small world,” she chokes out.

***

They sit in silence. Bellamy holds the scarf to her head, trying to ignore how the blood is starting to soak through. How much blood can a girl of Clarke's size lose? Fuck. Where are the goddamn ambulances? One of them could have been dead by now.

  
“How's Octavia?” Clarke's voice is shaky and weak, and the dull, metallic taste of guilt settles on Bellamy's tongue. This is all his fault He has never been a cautious driver, even during blizzards like the one that surrounds them now, but he has never felt this guilty about it before.

  
“O's okay,” Bellamy mutters darkly. “She's dating this bartender with a ton of tattoos and all of a sudden she's into motorcycles.”

  
The corners of Clarke's mouth curve up slightly. “Don't sound so excited.”

  
“He's an asshole.”

  
“Is he actually an asshole or is he just an asshole because he's dating Octavia?” Clarke asks knowingly.

  
“You seem to have forgotten that I'm the one keeping you from bleeding out,” Bellamy says.

  
“You seem to have forgotten that it's your fault that I'm here in the first place.”

  
Fuck. She has a point.

  
The flashing lights of an ambulance pulls up behind them before Bellamy can say anything, and he lets out a deep breath that he hadn't realize he'd been holding.

***

When Clarke emerges from her hospital room, her forehead stitched up and right hand immobilized in a splint, she isn't expecting to have anyone waiting for her. Raven had agreed to drive her home when her shift ended, and Clarke had figured she could find something to keep her busy around the hospital until Raven was finished.

  
Clarke's eyes fall on Bellamy in surprise, and she stands and stares at him stupidly for a moment. He sits in a hard waiting room chair, elbows resting on his knees and head in his hands. His coat has been discarded to reveal a rumpled white button down and a loose tie.

  
“You stayed.”

  
Bellamy's head snaps up at Clarke's voice. He springs to his feet. “Are you okay? What did they say? You should sit down. Are you hungry? Can you go home now?”

  
“I have a mild concussion, a minor break in my hand, and some stitches,” Clarke says. “Calm down. Take a deep breath.”

  
Bellamy tugs at his hair. “Fuck.”

  
Clarke raises her eyebrows. “I'd say I'm doing pretty good for getting T-boned.”

  
Bellamy winces at the reminder. “Do you want to share a taxi home? I want to make sure you get home safe.”

  
Clarke is about to turn him down, tell him that Raven will take care of her, but something stops her. Maybe it's the hint of hope in his eyes. Maybe it's the way her heart jumped into her throat when she saw him waiting for her. Or maybe it's just the concussion. “Sure,” she blurts out.

  
She finds Raven and explains what's going on. Raven wiggles her eyebrows suggestively. Clarke pretends that she doesn't notice.

  
When she finds her way back to Bellamy, he's leaning against one of the harsh white walls with his phone to his ear as he pulls at his messy hair with his unoccupied hand. Clarke wonders if it's really as soft as it looks before squelching that idea in horror, her cheeks heating up involuntarily.

  
Clarke approaches Bellamy, and he reaches out to examine the brace on her left hand.

  
“Mhm... Right... I'll tell her... Don't rush things, O... Yeah. Love you, too.”

  
“Octavia?” Clarke asks.

  
Bellamy nods, carefully flipping her hand over to examine the rest of the brace. Clarke tries to ignore the way her stomach flips in tandem. “She's missed you,” he says casually.

Clarke swallows thickly. “I had my reasons for disappearing off the face of the earth.”

“I know.”

***

Her dad died right after Clarke and Octavia graduated from college. That's pretty much all Bellamy heard about it at the time. It's not like he and Clarke were close. But then Clarke decided to go to med school across the country and backed out of the lease on the apartment she and Octavia were going to share, and suddenly Octavia was crying a lot more than necessary. Naturally, Bellamy got to pick up the pieces.

  
And now here she is. Living in the same city as them. And not a single phone call.

  
He should be mad at her. He should back up his little sister and tell her previously AWOL best friend off. And he tried. He tried to summon up some anger while she was getting stitched up. He really did. But then she showed up in the waiting room, pale and bandaged with bloodshot eyes and wrinkled blue scrubs, and all he could think about was how blue her eyes are and how exhausted she looks. How pathetic is that? Fuck.

  
“Let's get you home,” Bellamy says.

***

They drive home in relative silence. The cab smells like cigarettes and a too sweet air freshener, and the taxi driver is sketchy enough to make Bellamy thank the heavens that he didn't let Clarke go home by herself. A singer on the radio serenades them in a language that Bellamy doesn't recognize.

  
“I'm not going to, like, sue you,” Clarke says when the cabbie parks in front of her apartment building.

  
“I would understand if you wanted to,” Bellamy admits.

  
Clarke shrugs. “I've been shopping for a new car anyways.”

  
“Give her a kiss, loverboy, and let's get this show on the road!” the taxi driver barks. “I've got places to be!”

  
Bellamy rolls his eyes. “Goodnight, Clarke.”

  
“Goodnight, Bellamy.”

  
Clarke is almost to her front door when Bellamy jumps out of the car and jogs after her. She turns to face him, and he shuffles awkwardly, kicking himself for not having thought this through.

  
“Can I get your number?”

**Author's Note:**

> awwww! Let me know what ya thought!


End file.
